Haibun

A Winter Afternoon

The fire in the wood stove is burning well, so well that I move my chair further away.  From the picture window the view is mostly white.  The black iron table and chairs stand starkly, half buried in the new snow, the third storm in less than a month. Fat flakes glue themselves to the window where they melt, sliding down and sideways, following the fickleness of the wind.  Snow builds on pine branches, forcing them lower, lower…until a strong gust shifts the weight and they bounce upwards, scattering their cargo.  They settle back and the loading begins again.

all the day’s lists

counted and checked

burning brighter

Welsh Haiku, winter 2020

Haibun

                                         A WINTER AFTERNOON

 

The kitchen at dusk.  A soft bubbling from the pot on the back burner.  An old man at the table.  His full stomach keeps the chair several inches away.  A merry face.  Pink with a full white mustache.  On his equally pink bald head is a black knit cap.

He pours dark red wine made from his own grapes, sips, smacks his lips.  Now a glass for me, much smaller, watered down, befitting my size.  I copy him, dip a chunk of stale bread in my wine. It dissolves in my mouth to nothing. Tangy juices spurt down my throat and my chin.  The old man, my grandfather, wipes my dribbles with his handkerchief.  I am five years old.

 

                                   steam covered windows
                                   a snow carrying wind
                                   rattles the back gate

Ray’s Web Page, 9/17/2003